


Milk and A Nice Card

by buckybahrns (hop_in_my_moricarty)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, also some lil kissies, awe snuggly hand holding, plus john has a nice wank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hop_in_my_moricarty/pseuds/buckybahrns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Johnlock drabble inspired by my own illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk and A Nice Card

_bring back milk - JW_

_If I must - SH_

_And dont forget a card for mrs h - JW_

_I won't - SH_

John sighed and mumbled, "Yes you will," at his phone before tossing it to the other side of the bed. He was sick, and now the tables had turned as Sherlock was sent out to do menial tasks and John stayed at home. He pulled the covers up around himself, burrowing gratefully into their warmth, before drifting off.

Sherlock returned with a carton of milk, setting it in the fridge before making his way to John's room. "John?" Sherlock called, hearing none of the usual sounds from the doctor. John, however, was deeply asleep by the time Sherlock came home, and couldn't hear his flatmate's calls for him. Sherlock saw John asleep and sat gently on the side of the bed to check his temperature. He placed a gentle hand on John's forehead, trying his hardest not to wake the sleeping man. John was still warm; less so than he had been hours before, but still disconcertingly feverish. Sherlock sighed before getting up and leaving John's room as quietly as he could.

John stirred slightly as he thought he felt something touching him, and heard light footsteps walking away from him, but never fully woke. He slept for a few hours more, before a coughing fit shoved him into the land of the living. He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, carefully planting his feet on the floor before he shuffled to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

Sherlock heard John walk quietly into the kitchen while he was in the living room reading the paper. "Good morning," he said, never looking up or even turning his head. John squinted sleepily over his shoulder as he held the kettle under the faucet, getting water to boil.

"Hi," was all he could manage at that point, his voice hoarse from the sickness as well as sleep. "Did you get the card?"

Sherlock put down his paper and his eyes widened. "Um..." It seemed to have slipped his mind, as he was thinking of a million other things, the most pressing having been that everyone in the market with him was moving slower than a glacier and seemed to have been existing for the sole purpose of being in his way.

John groaned, mostly to be dramatic and rasped, "Of course." He sighed again, the water boiling in the kettle and a mug already set out for the unfinished tea. He dragged himself over to his armchair, and collapsed pathetically. "It's her birthday tomorrow, Sherlock."

"i know, I'll go out later and get one." Sherlock got up, the eye roll audible in his voice as he picked up his laptop. "At least I got the milk." John eyed him suspiciously and went to check the fridge.

"Sherlock, this is formula. For infants." John said tersely, trying not to lose his temper. He was clearly too tired and too ill to even try to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh," Sherlock replied, frustration rolling off of him in waves. He put his computer down and reached for his coat. "Well, I'll just go out and get some new milk, then." He sighed quickly as he looped his scarf around his neck. John nodded slowly, and he got up with Sherlock. He lingered just a bit too close to the detective at the door for just a bit too long, before clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Make sure you get the right kind this time. And a nice card." Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mother Hen John and said, "I'll do my best." He smirked and opened the door to leave. "Make sure you rest, John."

John scoffed quietly and turned to walk back to his room. "Make sure you rest, John," he mocked in a shrill whisper, flushing when he heard a faint voice say, "I heard that," from the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock made sure this time that he had the right milk and a lovely card. He made his way back upstairs and entered the flat, putting the milk in the fridge and signing Mrs. Hudson's card with a quickly scribbled " _Sherlock._ " He made his way to John's room again and opened the door. "John?"

John wasn't as deep in sleep as he was before, he wasn't even asleep at all. He was sat on his bed, laptop resting on his thighs, and his trouser and pants tugged down. John scrambled to pull himself together as he heard the creaking stair, but Sherlock was apparently faster than him. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John yelled, managing to at least cover himself with the blanket and slam the lid of his laptop shut before his flatmate saw too much.

Sherlock looked around John's room nervously, clearly feeling the full strength of the awkward situation. "What, erm... Never mind. I got the milk and a card. Do you want me to bring it up to you?"

John fished for an appropriate answer, trying to discreetly fix himself under the blanket. "Um, in- in a minute, Sherlock," he stammered, face bright red as he tried not to notice Sherlock studiously ignoring him.

"Okay, well, I'll be in the living room then." He closed the door quickly and walked to the living room, trying to busy himself with research.

John released a large gulp of air, and fell back against his headboard. "Shit," he hissed, opening his computer again and immediately muting it in order to prevent any further embarrassment to himself or Sherlock. He tidied himself up, running a hand through his short hair, mentally preparing himself for the walk of shame he would have to endure when he went to sign the card.

"John?" Sherlock called out, slightly worried about the doctor.

"Yeah?" John yelled back, pacing lightly around the foot of his bed.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," John lied. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Well come sign this then," Sherlock snarked. "I made a whole 'nother trip to get it."

John began panicking silently. "Um... S-sure thing!" His voice broke and he cursed himself for that. It was perfectly normal for a man to have a wank while his flatmate was out. Everyone did it. What did he have to be embarrassed about?

Sherlock sighed to himself about having to make his own tea, and pushed himself out of his chair and made his way to the kitchen. John tentatively came down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. He skipped over the creaky stair, sticking to the sides. He all but froze when he saw Sherlock with his back to him in the kitchen which, unfortunately, was where the card was stashed.

Sherlock was too focused on his tea to notice John come down to the kitchen. He was surprised to see John behind him when he turned. "Oh, hi. Erm, card is on the table." He made his way past John to sit in his chair.

"Right," John mumbled as Sherlock brushed past him, their arms almost knocking the other's as they went their own ways. He quickly took the pen that was laid neatly next to the car, and scribbled his name and a festive message on the inside. He saw that there was still some water in the kettle, and quickly rinsed out his old cup that he had tossed in the sink and made himself another mug of tea.

Sherlock was sipping his tea quietly as he tried to read the tiny print on his laptop. John settled himself awkwardly in his chair, highly aware of the silence that hung heavy between his flatmate and himself. "Erm, listen, Sherlock. About- um- what you saw? Earlier? I- uh- I'm s-sorry?" He immediately wished he had done no such thing, and tried to focus on counting the different shapes he could find in the rug where the fibres had been worn down, pushed and pulled in so many different ways.

Sherlock looked up slowly, clearly reluctant to tear his eyes from the screen. "It's erm... Fine, John. It's a... It's normal." He felt a flush heat his cheeks as he looked back to his computer, seeming to throw himself into the work with a new vigour.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," John trailed off, running a thumb up and down the handle of is mug. The tension in the room was palpable and was Sherlock - no, he couldn't be- but he was! Sherlock Holmes was blushing!

"Erm... Have you gotten anything else for Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock tried his best to hide his face from John, infinitely angry at himself for blushing. He usually didn't blush at all, so why now, of all times?

"I, um," John glanced up, transfixed by how the detective was now shy and so very human. "Yeah, I got her a scarf. The one she's been talking about." Sherlock wasn't meeting his eyes, which was great, because that meant that John could stare at the pink cheeks of the usually pale man with few repercussions.

"Oh, that one. Lovely. I'm sure she'll be delighted." He continued to stare down at the article on his laptop, not even really reading it. He could hardly focus, and had no idea why.

"Yeah," John paused for a moment. "And you?"  _Stupid question_ , he thought to himself, silently chastising.

"I got her a new set of tea cups, being I wrecked her last set..." Sherlock glanced up for a second. "I thought I'd get her something to apologize.:

John nodded sagely, quickly tearing his eyes away from Sherlock as he saw them move. "That's, erm, quite nice of you. I'm surprised. I'm sure she'll love it." That earned John a quiet, little grunt in acknowledgment. Sherlock closed his laptop and paced the room quickly.

John watched Sherlock with what he hoped came off as vague disinterest, his eyes trailing every contour of the tall, lean man's body as he moved gracefully through the small room. Sherlock paused, looking around the room. "Have you seen my phone?"

John looked away quickly again, shaking his head with a helpful, "Is it maybe in the kitchen? Or in your room?" Sherlock looked in the kitchen, finding it on the counter and picked it up, casually flipping it in his hands.

"Do you think you'll feel better by tomorrow?" Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes boring in John's direction.

"Probably," John replied swiftly, only adding on a "why?" as an afterthought.

"Well," Sherlock said, lying on the couch and stretching out his long legs. "i thought it'd be nice to make dinner plans for Mrs. Hudson, unless you don't want to." He turned his head to John.

"No, no," John answered, turning to be able to look at Sherlock. "That sounds lovely. Mrs. Hudson's been dying to try that new Thai place."

"All right." Sherlock tapped away at his phone for a couple moments before speaking again. "By the way, how are you feeling right now?"

"Much better, actually," John said, slightly suspicious of Sherlock's conversational attitude. "I think that it's finally wearing off, just a bit of fatigue left behind."

"Good," Sherlock grunted, sitting up and facing John. "I'm bored." John groaned lowly and muttered, "Sweet Christ." He tracked Sherlock's movements intently, mentally double-checking that he had secured the tobacco and guns well. Sherlock groaned back, mocking John as the latter tutted at him, and tried to ignore the generous eye-rolling going on.

Sherlock tried to hold back a chuckle, but failed miserably. "God, I'm so bored. How are you not?"

 _Because I'm normal. Because i don't think of a million and one different things at once_. John ignored those two answers, opting only to shrug helplessly. Sherlock groaned and started to make his way to his bedroom. "I'm going to sleep, then," Sherlock called over his shoulder.

"Have fun," John teased. "Don't shoot anything." He tried not to react to Sherlock's dry, "We can only hope." John allowed himself a small eye-roll, also making his way back to his room on his better judgment. As he passed by Sherlock's door, he could hear the faint sounds of a violin being tuned. John sighed; he was in for a long night, and it was only three in the afternoon."

* * *

Sherlock tried to think of a new song to play. He'd already played hundreds of them, keeping John up, much to his chagrin. He sighed and readied his bow, deciding on a happier melody and he began to play.

John groaned into his pillow, and rolled over in bed again. He glanced at his alarm clock, and groaned louder before realizing what Sherlock was playing. It wasn't a loud, angry piece that kept sleep from coming, nor a woeful, depressing that kept him up only with the sad notes. Sherlock was playing something happy, which was such a rarity that John quit his groaning.

Sherlock reached the end of the piece and huffed. He tried to think of another song, but gave up and crawled into is bed. He didn't sleep though; he couldn't sleep. He also couldn't figure out why.

John gave up on trying to fall back asleep, and instead went into the kitchen to make himself a little snack. He made Sherlock something too, sure that even he would be a little hungry after having only had a biscuit or two a few days ago. He knocked on the door of Sherlock's room, calling softly, "Sherlock? I've got some food if you want it."

"Can you bring it in?" John heard, and he placed the plate carefully on his forearm, trying to balance it. He turned the doorknob. opening the door cautiously and slowly in case Sherlock had any experiments on the floor. He peeked his head in a little, spotting Sherlock sprawled on his bed, violin cast aside.

Sherlock sat up and reached for his plate. He was starving. "What is it?"

"Just some toast and jam. I didn't know how hungry you'd be."

"It's fine." Sherlock took the plate and bit into his toast as John looked around the room for a clear place to sit, before realizing the only option was Sherlock's bed.

"May I?" John asked, vaguely gesturing at the space next to Sherlock.

"Of course," Sherlock answered, scooting over a bit in case John didn't have enough room.

"Thanks," John said, carefully perching on the edge of the bed with his own plate of toast. Sherlock set his plate on his lap and tapped his fingers against his thigh. He searched for something to say to break the silence, groaning softly when he came up with nothing.

John glanced sideways at Sherlock when he heard a small noise make its way out of his mouth. "You okay?" John inquired, trying his very hardest not to imagine what other sounds Sherlock might make, given the proper stimuli.

"Silence bothers me sometimes," Sherlock explained as he patted his hands on his legs, trying to fill the silence as much as possible.

"But you- never mind," John said, knowing it was best not to argue with the dark haired man.

"i only like silence when I want to think, John."

John made a face, and he was thankful for the dim room. "Oh, well, pardon me. What would you like to talk about, Sherlock?"

"Oh, I don't know, something interesting," Sherlock said, mocking John's remark.

"something," John replied, his voice incredulous. "You want to talk, but have  _no idea_  what you want to talk about? You're ridiculous."

"I'm no good at conversation, John." Sherlock fidgeted his hands. "Pick something."

"Well," John drawled, pulling the word out slowly. "How about you tell me about... Your..." John cast quick glances around the room, desperate for a conversation topic. "Violin?"

"Seems rather simple, but, if it must be talked abut. I started playing when I was about nine. Mummy said it'd be good to learn at least one instrument. Helps brain function." Sherlock looked at the old violin. "The one I have now used to be Mycroft's but, as he grew older, he lost interest and gave it to me."

John nodded politely, but was secretly delighted to be hearing about Sherlock's childhood. He rarely talk about it. "Tell me more," John implored, trying not to seem like he was begging.

Sherlock smirked to himself, "She tired to get me to learn other instruments, but my interest was only in the violin." He looked up, trying to remember more. "It was the only thing I liked about going to school, violin lessons. Other than that, I had no interest in school at all."

"Not even chemistry? Or maths?"

"Not in primary school. I took an interest when I reach secondary school. I had a great science and maths teacher. I can't remember his name, but he got me into ding crazy experiments at home."

"Well, thank God for him," John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes in the dark.

Sherlock glared at him. "What? Are you saying you don't like my experiments, John?"

"Well, I'm not saying I  _don't_ like them, but I'm not saying I'm in love with them either."

"Hm." Sherlock smirked to himself. "Why don't you tell me about your childhood?"

 _Where do I even begin_ , John though, sitting in silence for a few moments. "Well, Harry and I were pretty close growing up. My family, we uh, we didn't really come from money. So, sometimes, when it was a bit tight, Harry and I would - and I can't believe I'm telling you this - we'd make little crafts and knick-knacks and sell them in shops or wherever we wouldn't get in trouble. Little dumb things, y'know? Like stupid keychains or stuff like that." John blushed furiously at this embarrassing moment of his past, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

Sherlock smiled. "That sounds lovely." He looked at John and just barely saw the tips of his ears turn red. "Mummy wouldn't have time for silly stuff like that, and Mycroft would certainly never help. Although, when I was really young, and don't you dare laugh, I pretended to be a pirate."

John was barely able to stifle the chuckle that threatened to break out of his chest. "A pirate? Sherlock Holmes dressed in his mum's blouse, swashbuckling around the Holmes estate, defending the honor of dearest Mummy Holmes from the dreaded Mycroft" John teased, his voice full of mirth and happiness.

Sherlock laughed softly to himself. "I don't really know why I did, but I had a homemade eye patch and cardboard sword. I would make pretend maps and hide Mycroft's things and make him find them." He smiled again, tilting his head back.

John grinned at his friend, and studied him carefully, trying to picture a six-year-old Sherlock forcing the ever-so-mature Mycroft, at thirteen years of age, to follow a treasure map.

"I used to be a strange young thing, Sherlock mused, pulling his knees up to his chin. "But I never once made a keychain, as much as I would have loved to. John grinned and had a dumb thought, but before he could stop himself:

"Why don't we do that some time? Make a keychain?" Sherlock turned to look at John and said softly, "Sounds fantastic." Sherlock smiled broadly and said, "Maybe then I'd actually use keys for the flat."

John snickered and nudged Sherlock lightly with his shoulder, grumbling, "Idiot," with no real menace.

Sherlock laughed and set his forehead on his knees. When his giggles ceased, he looked up and sighed softly, chin placed carefully between his knees.

"I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself," John confessed quietly, eyes glued to Sherlock. "You've really been pushing hard on the Moriarty syndicate lately."

Sherlock grunted quietly in agreement and said, "Sometimes I just need a break from all the crime and evil." He traced circles on is knee with an index finger. "I haven't had one in years."

John smiled, and this time it was a sincere smile, one that spoke of relief and friendship and caring and admiration, but was lost in the darkness of Sherlock's bedroom. "Well, then," John started slowly. "This is a break long overdue."

Sherlock let out a soft sigh, "Yes, I suppose it is." He laid on his back, and stared blankly at the ceiling. John didn't know why he did it, it was just something that happened. One moment he was sitting up, and the next he war curled on his side, facing the world's only consulting detective as both laid on the latter's bed in the dark.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John and smiled before laying on his side to face John. "Hello," John whispered, a dopey smile on his face.

"Hi," Sherlock whispered back. John reached out a hand slightly, inching it closer to where Sherlock's was, and paused  to allow Sherlock to asses the situation and decide whether or not he was comfortable with it.

Sherlock, in response, moved his hand closer. John slowly extended his pinky, just allowing it to touch Sherlock's own, before he wrapped warm fingers around the cooler ones next to him. Sherlock blushed a little at John's touch, but held his hand softly and sighed. John let out a contended noise, and grinned when he heard the happy sigh. He squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly, and he grinned wider when his own was squeezed back.

Sherlock smiled at him, and John blinked lazily, eyelids heavy with sudden fatigue and an overload of happiness. "I think I'd really like to kiss you right now," John mumbled, eyes closed and fingers intertwined with Sherlock's.

Sherlock sighed in content. "There's no one stopping you," he whispered quietly. John scooted closer to Sherlock, bringing his face right in front of the paler one, his shock of dark hair a vivid contrast to both his complexion and the sheets. He placed a careful hand on Sherlock's cheek, running a thumb over the plane of his cheekbone, and leaned in slowly. Sherlock, for a man who had been celibate and showed no interest in anyone, was a surprisingly good kisser. His lips were soft, and his movements gentle and in control. Sherlock placed a hand on John's back, gently puling him closer. He had never been kissed before, and indulged in this brand new feeling.

John could feel a warmth pressing on his back, and it took him a moment for it to register that it was Sherlock's hand. He complied with Sherlock's wishes, bringing his chest flush against Sherlock's own, head titled at an awkward angle, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the handful of Sherlock's curly hair had had in between his fingers, and the feel of a pair of lips against his own.

They kissed for what felt like hours, and only broke apart when the desperately needed air. The sun had begun its gentle ascent, and Sherlock's room was starting to get lighter. John could finally admire Sherlock properly, his lips pink and swollen from little nips and pulls that had him aching for more. John buried his face between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, placing gentle, sleepy kisses on the skin.

Sherlock hummed happily as he felt the kisses John was leaving on his neck, feather light and warm. He brought his long legs up, and John slotted his shorter ones between both of Sherlock's. They laid like that for a long while, and eventually John fell asleep. Sherlock smiled down at the doctor's head, pressing a single kiss to his downy hair. He snuggled closer to the smaller man, and closed his eyes, sleep finally washing over him.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if it's not the quality it usually is, I'm pretty sick.


End file.
